


the echoes of you in me

by mrecookies



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Porn, Bottom Derek, Dirty Talk, Glasses kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:17:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrecookies/pseuds/mrecookies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No one wants to see a pornstar with glasses on," Derek says finally, his tone clipped, but not angry. He relaxes a fraction, and takes a step towards Stiles.</p>
<p>Stiles laughs. (It clearly doesn't escape Derek that it's a nervous kind of laugh; Derek's eyes crinkle just that little bit.) "I would."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the echoes of you in me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theaeblackthorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaeblackthorn/gifts), [etacanis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etacanis/gifts).



> For Sas, who encouraged me to write this PWP over Twitter. Dedicated to Amy with the most tremendous thanks, because she beta-ed it and told me that it was okay to not have plot in things.
> 
> Excuse the title; it's 2 am (Happy New Year!) and I can't think of an appropriate bad pun.

"Are these yours?" Stiles asks with a grin, long fingers twirling a pair of glasses in the air. He notices the way Derek's back stiffens, the way his eyebrows quirk and set in a firm frown, and the way Derek's teeth come out to nip at the bottom lip before the corners of his mouth turn down. Stiles peers through the lenses nonchalantly, ignoring Derek's discomfort—he sees Derek's fingers clamping down on the spine of the sofa. "Nice. Intellectual."

"No one wants to see a pornstar with glasses on," Derek says finally, his tone clipped, but not angry. He relaxes a fraction, and takes a step towards Stiles.

Stiles laughs. (It clearly doesn't escape Derek that it's a nervous kind of laugh; Derek's eyes crinkle just that little bit.) "I would."

"Really?" And that's not fair, the way Derek is smiling right the fuck now, all white gleaming teeth, the canines sharp like fangs. His eyes are very green, flashing almost dangerously in the late afternoon light, and Stiles slowly backs up until he hits the edge of the kitchen counter. Derek's still a foot or so away, coming closer with that predatory look on his face that Stiles has seen (and unashamedly jerked off to, multiple times) in his scenes.

"Yeah," Stiles continues gamely, wondering if it's intimidation or the overwhelming sexual tension that's making his breath come quicker. (He's betting on the latter, because the former had been when Matt told him a year ago that Stiles would be working with Derek fucking Hale. Stiles hadn't reacted quite so professionally; he vaguely remembers calling Scott and nearly crashing his jeep into a tree as a result.) He makes to look like he's casually leaning against the mahogany counter, slouching and smiling. "In fact, you should try putting them on. C'mon, the whole reason we're here is so that I get to see you in your natural habitat."

(False. The whole reason they're here, in Derek's rustic-looking bachelor pad, is because Derek had whispered into Stiles's ear constantly during the photoshoot for Fleshjack about all the filthy things he wanted to do to Stiles and what he wanted Stiles to do to him.)

Derek hums. It comes out sounding like a low growl. Stiles gulps.

Tanned hands reach out for the glasses, and Stiles stare as they wrap around his pale hands. Derek's hands are a mite larger than his, but his fingers are much thicker, and Stiles's mind goes into shock for a minute thinking about what they could do to him. (Imagines— _remembers_ —them being sucked into a wet mouth, a tongue licking deftly at the skin; wrapping around a hard cock, thumb swiping agonizingly across the slick head; stroking lightly down bodies covered with a light sheen of perspiration, nails scratching and leaving temporary trails of pain-tipped pleasure behind.) He shivers suddenly, then blinks to see Derek right in front of him and looking at Stiles with knowing eyes and that stupid smirk.

"Finished fantasizing about me?" he says smugly, and Stiles is struggling for some kind of witty comeback before giving up altogether as Derek slips the glasses on. "So."

Stiles's brain is trying very hard to come up with something other than _hnngh_ and _fuck_. He hears a strangled version of his voice say, "Like I said, intellectual. Nice." Fuck _nice_ , Stiles wants—he _wants_.

"What do you want?" Derek asks softly, crowding Stiles against the counter.

"I—" Stiles swallows, scrambling, his limbs awkward and not at all casual any longer. He thinks, I want to tear you apart in a way that no cameras can ever capture, I want to have you all to myself, I want to mark you so badly that when you come during your next scene it'll all be me me _me_ you're thinking of—

"Well," Derek says, tilting his head down to gently rub his nose against Stiles's, "do it, do all of it."

(Stiles really needs to learn how to police his brain-to-mouth filter.)

Derek steps back quite abruptly, and Stiles breathes in, disoriented. "What? Come back here!" he manages to say with a fair amount of calm and indignation, and reaches out to pull Derek back into his space.

The kisses are gentle at first; Stiles takes his time (because they actually _have_ time now, not being constrained by the studio and rushed about by the directors) to leisurely lick along Derek's bottom lip, and to cup his hand along Derek's cheek, feeling the stubble under his fingers. It's all white noise in his ears as he closes his eyes; he dazedly makes out the sounds of their kisses as they grow sloppier, messier, wetter. Derek's large, warm, callused palm presses against the side of his neck, and Stiles automatically tilts his head back to let Derek mouth at the thin skin covering his jugular. The slide of tongue on the vein makes him shiver and pull Derek closer, fingers scrabbling at the base of Derek's neck.

(He half-expects a cameraman to shift closer.

It's astonishing—sillily so—when no noise comes.)

"I want you to fuck my mouth," Derek says, little huffs of breath against Stiles's skin. Stiles can feel his cock hardening in total agreement and anticipation.

The next few moments are a blur. Derek quite literally drags him to his bedroom; Stiles has barely a moment to glance around and note the decor before his belt falls with a thud to the ground. Another blink, and Derek smirks as he tugs Stiles's jeans and underwear down to his ankles.

"Practice makes perfect," Stiles blurts out. Derek just hums under his breath and licks a stripe up Stiles's cock.

The fact that Derek _can_ smile during sex blows Stiles's mind. (Of course, right now the thing that's _really_ blowing Stiles's mind is the fact that Derek is blowing _him_ and making the most obscene noises while doing so. Stiles doesn't expect anything less.) Derek's always been the frowny one in his scenes, the big muscle guy who shoves and grabs and holds his partners down and fucks the daylights out of them. But now, Derek's smiling, all teasing grin even as he looks up at Stiles through lidded eyes framed by his goddamned glasses, lips wet with spit and precome around Stiles's dick. It's unfair. With Derek, everything's fucking unfair. 

Especially when he gently rakes his teeth along the top of Stiles's cock while Stiles is struggling to get his shirt off. After a final vicious shove that tosses his shirt halfway across the room, Stiles doesn't apologize as he tightens his tangled hold in Derek's hair and tugging Derek all the way down. He deserves it. Both of them do. When he releases Derek, Derek pulls off just to spit onto the bedroom floor before deep-throating Stiles again.

It's heaven and hell all at once, feeling Derek's throat fluttering against the sensitive skin of his dick and watching Derek's eyes fall shut and—and trying to _hold off his orgasm_ because Stiles wants to be in Derek when he comes. (Even though Stiles has plans for another time, mainly watching his come paint Derek's face and glasses. _God._ )

Just as he's about to warn Derek, Derek abruptly stops, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and says, "My turn." There's a wonderful rasp in his voice, and Stiles thrills at the realization that he put it there. He flops down onto the bed next to Stiles, hands behind his head, looking for all the world like he's ready for another photoshoot. (Stiles is neither starstruck nor jealous. He's _not_.) "Get on with it, Stilinksi."

Stiles smirks. "Yes, sir," he says, raising an eyebrow when Derek's eyes snap to his. Good to know. He crawls over to straddle Derek, and bends down for a brief kiss, before nuzzling Derek's ear, nose brushing the side of those damned glasses. His bare skin feels so good against Derek's fully-clothed body, and he shivers at the thought of him smearing precome on Derek's jeans. Stiles nips at Derek's earlobe, feeling Derek's biceps flex against the pillows. Derek's still trying to stay relaxed when Stiles's tongue flicks against his left nipple through the thin shirt, but a hand resting on Derek's collarbone tells him that Derek's pulse is beating faster.

"Get on with it," Derek says again, a noticeable strain in his voice this time.

"Huh." Stiles blows onto the wet spot on Derek's shirt, grinning when Derek curses and tries to reach for Stiles, all his pretense of relaxation forgotten. "You know what we should try?" He runs his hands up Derek's abs and chest under the shirt as he helps Derek shrug out of it. "Edging. I've always wanted to make you beg for my cock. Bet you'd look perfect with a cock ring and a blindfold. Maybe handcuffs. Finger you until you're gagging for it, make you learn some lessons about being _patient_." With that last word, Stiles nips at Derek's right nipple, reveling in the hiss it elicits.

"I _am_ being patient," Derek all but growls down at him.

(Stiles is suddenly reminded of that video Beacon Studios did for Christmas a few months ago with Jackson-as-Red fucking Derek-as-Wolf into the fake snow. Stiles had been an elf in a scene with Boyd and Danny coming simultaneously over his face at the end. He's definitely not re-watching it despite the highly positive reviews. An _elf_. There had been _striped stockings_ that he hadn't been allowed to take off throughout the scene.)

"Yeah, you _really_ are," Stiles scoffs, biting down on Derek's stomach to prove his point; Derek can't help but roll his hips upwards even though he succeeds on stifling his groan. Just barely. He sits up, scowling, and Stiles smirks. "I know, I know, get on with it."

He divests Derek of the rest of his clothes quickly enough, fingers snaking greedily around the base of Derek's cock. He pumps it slowly, watching Derek as he makes a sudden twist on the upstroke, satisfied when Derek grunts and lies back onto the pillows, glasses slightly askew. A string of precome stretches, glistening, from the head of Derek's cock to the pads of Stiles's fingers, as Stiles reaches down between Derek's spread thighs to brush them against Derek's ass. It doesn't take long for one finger to slip in; Derek's still a little loose from the photoshoot. (Stiles doesn't think about Derek fingering himself while jacking off using the Fleshjack toy. He _doesn't_.)

Stiles spreads a liberal amount of lube onto his fingers and Derek's ass, mouthing an apology up Derek's body when some drips onto the sheets. In reply, Derek huffs and presses Stiles's hand against his dick, and Stiles has to smile at that. Derek kisses him, a moan humming along Stiles's lips as he pushes two fingers into Derek's ass. A sense of urgent want rushes through Stiles, and he has to force himself not to go too fast, but Derek's telling him to _fucking fuck me Stiles_ with those eyes with the now-thin wild green irises and blown pupils, and Stiles scissors his fingers to make sure Derek's—"I'm good," Derek says hoarsely. "I'm good, fuck me."

Patience is a bitch, Stiles thinks, as he rolls the condom onto his flushed cock, staring hazily down at Derek. The glasses clatter as Derek takes them off to set them none too gently on the bedside table. "Protection," Derek says with a quick grin, and _oh_ , Stiles is going to fuck that smirk off his face.

He pushes in as slow as he can, loving the way Derek scrabbles to pull him closer, and he's viciously smug when Derek doesn't succeed too much. (Stiles is a twink when he's marketed as such sometimes, but he is a lean, muscular twink, okay? He works out.) Derek scratches down his back in response, and that's the game he wants to play, huh? Stiles can work with that.

It's not as rough as it could be. (Stiles resolutely files the possible next-times away into a corner of his mind for later jerk-offs.) But it's enough for now; Stiles maintains an irregular rhythm, moving slower when Derek tries to wrestle control, and fucking faster when Derek relaxes. Or makes one of those noises, those little _unhs_ that Stiles is almost delirious to hear again and again. He discards the pattern when he flips Derek over on all fours, choosing instead to fuck him at a leisurely pace, if only to have Derek curse at him and try to flip them over. (Stiles will let him. Next time. But now, he holds his position.) It's thrilling, the challenge of having someone larger under him and _wanting_.

Stiles redirects his focus from Derek's ass squeezing his cock with every motion to the arch of Derek's back and its soft sheen of perspiration. He bends down to lick at a patch of skin, tasting salt and heat, stilling his hips for a moment, and Derek groans. It's a lovely sound, and Stiles is hungry to hear it again, so he stops fucking Derek after a few thrusts to lick and bite and mouth at Derek's shoulder and back, cock buried unmoving in Derek's tight ass. "It's okay," he mumbles into Derek's skin, feeling the tremble that runs through both of them. His fingers dig into Derek's flesh, holding them as still as they can.

With a keening noise bordering on desperate, Derek's hips suddenly grind upwards, his spine curving that much more, and Stiles can't help the ragged gasp that escapes. He's nearly crossed-eyed, watching and letting Derek push back on his cock, as he impatiently fucks his ass back for more of Stiles in him. Stiles just holds his position over Derek's back, and watches with glazed eyes as Derek pants into the pillow while fucking Stiles as fast as he can. Stiles is honest-to-god _mesmerized_ as he watches Derek's ass move back and forth on his cock, Derek's spine undulating wildly under him. When Derek actually whines in frustration, Stiles snaps his hips forward, forcing Derek to stop moving for a bit, his cock deep in Derek.

"Holy shit," Stiles says, as Derek tries to move backwards to get Stiles _even deeper_. "You're impossible. Holy _fuck_."

It's beautiful. Because when it comes down to it, Stiles loves to hold his partners down and fuck into them until they're clenching the sheets and rearing up against him, wantonly pressing themselves back into the sweaty slick of his body. This is why he loves this, loves Derek rolling his hips and panting and making that growly voice that screams _fuck me_ , that echoes the hot want and desire locked into his taut muscles and squeezed-shut eyes. Derek slamming his ass back onto Stiles's hips, Derek mouthing at the crumpled sheets, Derek reaching back to pull Stiles in, Derek snarling for Stiles to _come for me, Stiles, come on, come for me_. The heady smell of precome and sex and lube and sweat. The obscene slapping noise of pale skin on tanned skin on pale skin. It all conglomerates into a sweet and salty pool of desire, and Stiles's senses just narrow and blur down into the sensation of Derek's ass squeezing around his cock, the white-hot pleasure boiling at the base of his spine—it starts off dull, but slowly arcs into something sharper and sweeter up his back, and he's vaguely aware of his fingers digging into Derek's hipbones, dizzyingly lost as he comes bucking into Derek, Derek's name lost in the smash of Stiles's lips on a triskelion tattoo.

"You," Stiles bites out, squeezing his eyes shut as he pulls out of Derek's still-tight heat. "You are the bossiest bottom _ever_."

The look that Derek gives him is smug and hungry all at once. After Stiles ties up and tosses the condom away, Derek flips over and motions for Stiles to sit behind him, his hot back against Stiles's chest. Stiles nudges Derek's ears (puppy dog ears, Stiles thinks absently; how is he so adorable, _god_ ) with his nose and allows Derek to pull his arms forward until Stiles's hands are around Derek's cock. Derek's hands are incredibly warm around his as they jack Derek off together, and Stiles shivers as he noses into Derek's neck; he can hear the wet sounds and smell the precome, can almost taste the heady flavor of Derek's come and feel the weight of his cock on Stiles's tongue. His hands move faster, and it's on a particularly rough upstroke that Derek's hands fall away and he leans back, panting, into Stiles. Stiles bruises his exposed throat with his teeth as he makes sure his fingers are brutal on Derek's dick, placing pressure on the thick vein on the underside with the pads of his fingers, and thumbing the flushed head every time Derek's cock fucks upwards into Stiles's fist.

"Gonna come for me, Hale?" Stiles says, groaning when Derek grips his arm tightly. "Gonna be a good boy and come for me?" Derek's taken aback when Stiles stops, and Stiles thrills to see the want in Derek's eyes, the need to just grab Stiles and rut against him until he comes. Even more so, Stiles thrills to see the _hesitation_. So he rewards it, rewards the fury and the holding back, says "Good boy," and listens to Derek's heartbeat stutter before it speeds up as Stiles curls his hand around Derek's cock again, stripping it hard and fast.

Stiles can _feel_ the sudden arc of tension sparking up Derek's spine, and he holds Derek to him tighter with his free arm, nails digging into flesh as Derek jerks and shudders, Derek's come splashing cooling white stripes over his fist. A tremor of greed runs through Stiles, and he continues pumping Derek's cock, watching for the moment when the over-sensitization kicks in with a surprised grunt that quickly dissolves into writhes and bitten-off whimpers for Stiles to _stop stop stop too much, Stiles, stop_. He leans forward to nip fondly at an earlobe before ceasing his hand's movements; Derek's eyes are so green when Stiles brings his fingers to his mouth and tastes, so green that Stiles _has_ to run his fingers through the splatters of white and smear it all onto Derek's tongue.

Later, after the requisite cleaning up of Round One, they lie on Derek's bed, tangled up in a pair of discarded jeans and grey sheets, Derek mapping out Stiles's moles with his warm mouth, and Stiles scrabbling for the bottle of lube on the bedside table. His fumbling hand (Stiles refuses to stop looking at Derek sucking and biting the spot just on the side of his knee for one moment, _fuck_ ) finds Derek's glasses along with the bottle, and he grins as he puts them on. Derek doesn't notice for a few moments, preoccupied with licking the back of Stiles's knee, and Stiles totally appreciates it, he does, but he appreciates Derek's expression when he finally sees what Stiles is wearing even more. His leg is dropped to the bed, and Stiles doesn't have time to take in a breath to protest, because Derek's surging forward to kiss him hard, rubbing his already half-hard dick against Stiles's stomach.

Stiles pushes free after a good while, and says teasingly, "So, how do I look?"

Derek smirks, and, with the tip of a finger, skews the glasses ungainly across Stiles's face. Stiles huffs, reaching to arrange them properly, but Derek catches his hands, and says, "Intellectual," with that grin, that unfair gleaming grin that promises the best kind of purple and blue imprints all over their bodies, and Stiles struggles to breathe in.


End file.
